Читать книгу The Crimson West - Alex Philip - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The arena and the grand-stand were packed, the S.R.O. sign having been hung out at two o’clock. The cosmopolitan crowd sat in solid ranks, tier upon tier, from the select ringside seats to the topmost rail. Judges, lawyers, doctors and bankers sat with labourers, miners, loggers, bartenders, and bootblacks. Men of the underworld sat side by side with men that make and administer our laws. There was a sprinkling of Japs, Chinamen and negroes. The turbanned Hindu made bright splotches of colour here and there in the vast sea of faces. Of class distinction there was none; all welded as one in the love of the boxing game.

The preliminaries were over, and the vast crowd had settled in their seats. Suddenly there was a stir, a craning of necks. Down the aisle on the west side of the arena came Donald, followed by Andy and the two seconds, the latter carrying buckets, sponges, towels and bottles. Donald wore a dark-coloured bathrobe thrown over his shoulders. There was a murmur of applause that swelled to a tumult as he clambered through the ropes. He seemed cool as Andy piloted him to his corner, but as he sat down and stretched out his long legs, he appeared ill at ease.

Although the crowd had given him a handsome welcome, prophecies were shouted down from the top seats that he would not last very long with the formidable champion. Donald was palpably nervous, as evidenced in the quick turning of his head and the shuffling of his feet. He looked slight and frail as he leaned forward in his chair, the black bathrobe accentuating the paleness of his face. A feeling of friendlessness came over him as he gazed at the huge, strange crowd who were loudly predicting his defeat.

A well-known judge, wearing glasses and a big black hat, turned to his companion. “It’s a hanged shame, Tom, to match that slim boy with a brute like Garrieau.”

The one addressed was one of the City’s leading dentists and an ardent boxing fan. “Don’t you believe it, Bill,” he returned. “Just wait until you see this boy strip.”

“Here he comes!”

A roar of applause greeted the champion as he came down the east aisle bowing right and left in answer to their plaudits. His dark, massive body seemed fairly to shine as he leaped to the ring with easy grace and stripped off his robe. He stood in his corner with hands on the ropes, shuffling his feet in the resin, still smiling and glancing about the arena. Evidently he loved the limelight.

In appearance the champion very much resembled the ape. His bullet-like head was close cropped. The small piggish eyes were deep set under overhanging, beetling brows, and the nose was flat like a negro’s. His lips were thick, with a repulsive twist that gave his face a sinister look. His massive jaw was purposely left unshaved to rasp the tender skin of his opponent’s shoulders in the clinches. His enormous barrel-shaped chest was covered with a thick growth of hair. His shoulders were broad and his disproportionately long arms, heavily muscled, terminated in two thick ham-like hands. He gazed confidently across at Donald’s corner.

A pasteboard box containing the gloves was tossed to the centre of the ring. There was a stir as the announcer pushed his way through the ropes. Andy crossed the ring to examine the champion’s hands for tape and to test thoroughly the new gloves for any trace of sewed in shot or lotion that would cause the eyes to smart. One of Garrieau’s seconds was making a similar examination in Donald’s corner.

A big man in a wide-brimmed hat, with a mackinaw coat over his arm, came walking down the steps of the arena. The look of astonishment on his face gradually gave place to one of joy. He ran to the ringside.

“Donald!” he shouted joyously, as he sprang through the ropes. With a thrill of pleasure Donald held out his hand to Jack Gillis. The big man’s face was beaming. “Just got in,” he said. “Bin lookin’ all over town for you! I come to the fight and—holy mackerel!—here you are one of the fighters!”

Andy noted the glad look in Donald’s eyes and he spoke sharply to Donald’s seconds, who were for ordering the boisterous visitor out of the ring. The word “pyschology” was foreign to Andy, but he knew that Donald’s mind had for a moment drifted away from the fight. Donald was surprised to see Douglas greet Gillis warmly as the big man left the ring.

“I have two good friends in the audience, anyway,” whispered Donald to himself.

Andy leaned over him, talking in a low voice, giving him comfort and advice. “E’ll try right along, Donnie, to get your goat by cursing and using vile language, but don’t listen to ’im, and don’t lose your temper. ’E fights with ’is chin tucked in the ’ollow of ’is left shoulder and ’is neck muscles rigid. It’s mighty ’ard to land on ’is jaw with a right. Now the first round,” Andy went on, “you just jab ’im light with your left; don’t ’it ’ard, just a good snappy punch. ’E’ll think you ’ave no sting in it, and the next round ’e’ll get careless and let you ’it ’im so’s to get in a punch. Of course, if you see a good opening, let fly with all you ’ave, but ’e won’t open up until ’e tries you out a bit. Watch the dirty blighter in the clinches; ’e’ll foul you if ’e gets a chance. Another thing: this is to be twenty rounds, so tyke your time. Now is everything clear to you, Donnie?”

“Yes, Andy.”

Andy patted Donald’s bare shoulder affectionately.

The contestants stood in their corners as they were introduced. The referee beckoned them to the centre of the ring for instructions. As Donald slipped the enveloping bathrobe from his shoulders and stepped forward, a murmur of admiration swelled from the crowd. His lean loins and broad shoulders showed to advantage in the bright light. The long, flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved, like those of a panther. Loud applause came from all over the arena. Garrieau, thinking the ovation was for himself, turned and ducked his head with a motion that was intended for a bow.

A rough voice near the top shouted: “Aw! that wasn’t for you, you big stiff!”

The judge and the dentist turned and looked at each other. The eyes of the latter seemed to say, “I told you so.” The judge smiled and nodded.

A fat man, who could not have been more than thirty-five years of age, yet with rolls of fat at his waist-line, a bulbous nose and florid face, bit savagely on a big cigar. “By gad!” he ejaculated, “that man is perfect.” There was a look of admiration and envy in his red-rimmed eyes. Thus do men admire the strong, well-kept body of the athlete, even though their own physical self has degenerated to mere paste.

“Two to one that Garrieau wins inside of ten rounds!” shouted a voice. Douglas covered the bet at once.

“Now, men,” instructed the referee briskly, “this is to be for twenty rounds. You are to fight clean breaks. You can hit with one arm free, but you cannot hold with one and hit with the other. When I say ‘Break’ I want you to break at once and step back. Do you understand fully? Good! To your corners.”

Donald glanced at his friends, who sat with their eyes upon him. He felt Andy’s hand upon him gently stroking his arm, yet he could not suppress the trembling in his limbs.

“Everything’s all right, Donnie,” whispered Andy softly.

The gong rang.

Garrieau assumed the crouch Andy had predicted, his chin resting in the hollow of his shoulder, his eyes seeming to retreat into his skull under the overhanging brows. This was the champion’s famous “fighting face.”

“Pretty boy, ain’t yer?” he scoffed. “I’m goin’ to knock dose pretty teet’ down yer throat, you——” he cursed.

Donald snapped a light left to the ugly face and danced out of range. The champion’s thick lips parted in a fiendish grin. “My, mamma’s nice boy has a terrible punch!” he derided.

Donald continued his dazzling footwork, keeping the champion in pursuit and contending himself with occasional left-hand jabs that kept his opponent’s head rocking. He shot glances at intervals to his corner for instructions from Andy, who nodded his head in approval of his tactics.

The round finished in the challenger’s favour by a wide margin on points. The champion had not landed a single effective blow during the round.

The action of the first round caused Donald to forget his nervousness. Andy crowded between his knees and gently massaged his body, all the while speaking words of commendation and counsel.

“Now that you find that you can reach ’im easily with your left, watch me for signals. If I see that ’e’s openin’ up, I’ll give you the sign to shoot your left with all you ’ave. If he swings again with ’is left, try for ’is bread basket. You understand me, Donnie?”

“Easiest thing I’ve picked yet,” chuckled the champion as he came to his corner.

“He may be stalling,” cautioned his evil-faced manager.

“Huh!” grunted the champion. “I can take all he has in dat left and never feel it. I’m goin’ to open up on him de last part of de next round.”

The gong rang for the second round.

Donald caught a glimpse of Pursell’s face as he crouched in the opposite corner. Such a look of vicious hate shot from his one gleaming eye that Donald shivered.

The rough element began to boo Donald for his running tactics. Some fans feel that they are cheated out of the price of admission unless they can witness the spectacle of two boxers slugging toe to toe until one goes down. Science counts for nothing with this small minority.

“Whadda ya think this is, a marathon?” they shouted.

“Powder-puff punch!” derided another.

Garrieau suddenly tore in, letting loose a terrific right that would have stopped the bout right then if it had landed. From a clinch Donald looked to his corner. Andy went through the pantomime of shooting a straight left. Donald nodded.

“Powder-puff punch!” again shouted the disgruntled fan.

“Did ya hear that?” hissed Garrieau, twisting his mouth into an apish grin. “Yo can’t hit hard enough to break an egg. I’m goin’ to fix dose teet’ for you now.” He leered brutally as he tore after Donald, disdainful of the belittled left.

Donald stopped abruptly in his flight and shot a lightning left across to his pursuer’s jaw. The champion saw it coming, but too late to block it. He threw his body into reverse, robbing the blow of a great deal of its force; yet enough was left to send him reeling back to the ropes, his head whirling and his knees wobbly. With a roar the spectators came to their feet as one man. The gong saved Garrieau.

The crowd gave Donald a deafening ovation as he walked to his corner. He looked for his friends and saw Douglas and Gillis locked in an embrace and dancing madly in the narrow aisle.

“Pretty near got ’im that time, Donnie!” cried Andy gleefully. “If you can get ’im to lift ’is jaw off ’is shoulder, send in your right.” Andy’s hands were shaking with excitement, while Donald was cool and collected.

“Let me go after him, Andy,” he begged; “I can whip him at his own game.”

“No, no!” admonished Andy, “keep on as you are. Don’t try to swap punches with ’im!”

Garrieau’s seconds were working over him feverishly. Pursell leaned over the heavily-breathing champion, his evil face sick with apprehension.

“What’d I tell yer?” he exclaimed. “They’ve stuck a ringer in on us; dat feller ain’t no amachoor! If he beats ya we’re both bums! Foul him dis round, for de——” he finished with a savage oath.

At the beginning of the third round Garrieau charged his elusive adversary like a mad bull. Donald easily side-stepped him and he plunged into the ropes. As he rebounded, Donald landed a left and danced safely away without reprisal.

“You can do pretty footwork,” snarled the champion with a look of Simian ferocity, “but I’ll get you yet, you——” There followed a burst of wild cursing. He tried to rush Donald to the ropes, feinted for the wind, and let loose a powerful right for the jaw. Paying no attention to the feint, Donald ducked the blow and, countering, shot his left to his opponent’s mid-section. The champion grunted aloud, fell into a clinch, and hung on grimly. The referee pried them apart. Again the crowd came to their feet to shout in a frenzy of excitement.

Garrieau fell into a clinch, then wrestled about until he placed his opponent between himself and the referee. He loosed his right in a terrific upper-cut that missed, but his left smashed with fearful force to Donald’s groin—the most brutal foul that can be delivered. The referee did not see the blow.

Donald’s nerves quivered with agony. A wave of torment and the awful nausea that follows such a blow swept through him. His face writhing with anguish, his gloved hands clutching his groin, he crashed forward on his face. His body twitched for a moment, then lay still.

The crowd came to their feet and many moved toward the exits. Another victim, they thought, to the champion’s terrible punch. A number at the ringside, who had witnessed the foul blow, stood upon their seats and screamed denunciations at the referee.

The referee stood with one hand on Garrieau’s massive chest. The latter was lustfully straining forward while the fatal seconds were tolled off.

The roar of the crowd came to Donald’s ears like the dash of waves on a distant shore. At the count of five his body stirred. At the count of eight, his jaw sagging, his face distorted, he struggled to his knees. He saw Andy’s agonised face as through a fog and heard his desperate cry of appeal.

“Up, Donnie! Up!”

At the count of nine Donald’s benumbed muscles answered the call of his brain. With tremendous effort he staggered to his feet and wound his arms about his face. The crowd yelled themselves hoarse in tribute to his courage.

Garrieau was upon him with a growl like a wild beast. Donald stood in the centre of the ring reeling drunkenly. Garrieau shot a terrific right for Donald’s wind that struck his weakly protecting elbows. The impact carried him to the ropes, and he fell forward to his knees. Again the referee’s arm rose and fell as he counted the seconds. Again Donald tottered to his feet to meet a fusilade of short-arm jolts that pierced his guard and sent him staggering.

The gong rang. With body swaying unsteadily and legs wavering, Donald walked to his corner and sank down heavily. What a blessed relief to lie and relax! His head felt leaden and there was a ringing in his ears.

His seconds worked over him in furious haste. Andy knew all the tricks of resuscitation: the upward sweep of hand on the midriff that brings the big nerve centre to life; the quick raising of the chest that brings air to the remote corners of the lungs. With a sudden choking in his throat, the little Australian realized that this boy was very dear to him. A prayer on his lips, his hands trembling, but sure and deft, he strove to restore the shattered nerves.

The colour came slowly to Donald’s cheeks and the haze cleared away as the cold water was showered upon him. He felt his strength returning. A long deep breath and he was himself again. Youth and his fine body had saved him. He looked across the ring at Garrieau, whose vulture-like manager was leaning over him with an exultant look on his face. This brute had deliberately fouled him. A cold and terrible rage swept through every fibre of Donald’s being. He had demeaned himself by entering the prize-ring. This was bad enough; but to lose the battle!—Never! He looked for his friends. Their faces, he saw, were tense and full of misery.

“Andy, I’m going after him,” he declared in a hard voice.

Andy was about to remonstrate, but he caught a flash of the hard light in Donald’s eyes, and the words died on his lips. He hesitated. Maybe he should have let Donald take the aggressive from the start.

“Are you strong enough, Donnie?”

Donald’s eyes held a dull glow. “Yes!” he gritted.

Andy patted his arm as the gong rang. “Give ’im ’ell, Donnie!” And then added reverently: “May God give ’im strength.”

Donald shot from his corner as though thrown from a catapult to meet Garrieau before he was fairly out of his chair. The spectators held their breath. Was this the man who a minute before had walked staggering and beaten to his chair? When the referee pried the fighters apart after a fierce mix-up in the champion’s corner, a puffed eye and a bloody face showed that Garrieau had absorbed severe punishment. Donald was everywhere, dancing in for a fierce rally and out again, always without a return.

The arena fairly rocked to the cheers of the crowd as Donald stood in the centre of the ring and exchanged punches with the champion. Head to head they stood while Donald’s arms worked with such lightning speed that the champion’s blows were smothered. And, marvel of marvels, the champion was giving ground. The pursued had become pursuer. The tide had turned. With his arms wound about his face the champion retreated. As he assayed a lead, Donald’s fist smote his face before he could again cover up. Following relentlessly, Donald penetrated his opponent’s guard with rights and lefts until the champion’s face was a smear of red.

A bedlam of sound came from the audience as they stood on their seats and roared their admiration for the challenger’s wonderful exhibition. Andy, his face set, his eyes bulging clung to the corner of the ring.

Garrieau drove heavily at his elusive foe and missed. The impetus swung him to one side. For an instant his chin was without the protecting shelter of his shoulder. With a bewilderingly swift move Donald stepped forward, pivoted on his toes, and with the full weight of his powerful young body behind it, he whipped his right to the champion’s unprotected jaw. Plop! Garrieau fell upon his face and sprawled like a baboon on the floor. Donald walked to his corner, thrust his gloved hands towards Andy, who stood as though paralyzed, and said; “Take them off, Andy.” His voice was audible throughout the arena. The referee rushed to Donald’s side and raised his arm aloft in token of victory.

With a roar the crowd came to its senses to realize that the fight was over. Pandemonium broke loose. A struggling mass of humanity surged into the ring. Every man wanted to shake hands with the new champion. Garrieau, the possessor of the “punch” they had so much admired, was forgotten. The king is dead—long live the king! Such is life, especially in the boxing game!